


The Next Time You See Him

by hlmedinfl



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Drinking, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-02 22:48:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16314110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hlmedinfl/pseuds/hlmedinfl
Summary: He gives you a devilish smile. There’s a flicker in his eyes, the kind you’d see in a soap bubble before it bursts. He suddenly grabs your hand and takes you by the waist. The both of you stand up and the bar stools rock a little. He holds you close and guides your steps into a sort of dance. Your cheeks flush. You wonder if the bartender is watching. You look down and see the city. It’s like the bar is just a little ledge and you’ll fall right down if you don’t watch your step. But his arms hold you so tight that you don’t think you will.





	The Next Time You See Him

**Author's Note:**

> Eiji's pov

 

The next time you see him is in a bar in Roppongi. It is just a spur of the moment thing, a detour on your way home, but you can’t help but be enchanted by the bar’s name. You go up a gilded elevator, the mirrors make you see yourself for miles, and it surprises you that you actually go all the way to the top.

 

It’s only a slip of a bar, huge, curved glass panes overlooking the city, and a dark, dark granite counter that wraps around the entire space. There’s only enough room between the bar stools and the windows for two people to walk by. It gives the impression that if you lean back too far, you might fall through the windows. 

 

You almost think about turning back: this place is too high class for someone like you. But then the bartender catches your eye and kindly gestures. You can’t say no. You still haven’t learned how to be rude. 

 

You’re about to ask for the cheapest beer on the menu when the bartender sets down a square shaped glass. It goes down with a clink, and now that you notice, that dark, dark granite has little veins of white in it. 

 

“On the house,” the bartender says, as if reading your mind and you’re not sure how to thank him for his kindness.  _ No one is ever this kind, _ someone, somewhere tells you, but you ignore the voice and drink. It is smooth, the way fire is smooth, the way drinking alcohol should be. It is probably a top shelf cocktail. You probably can’t afford it on your budget. So you savor it. 

 

There’s a noise to the left of you and he sits down next to you. He doesn’t look old enough to be in a bar, but then he’s always looked too young to have been half the places he’s been. He greets you by flicking two fingers off his head. 

 

“You’re here,” you say, surprised. Your voice doesn’t flood with emotion like you think it would. It sounds matter-of-fact, like you’re saying “it’s raining” or “the train is coming.” It sounds obvious. It sounds as it should sound. 

“Of course I am,” he says like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

You don’t say his name, but you want to. 

 

The bartender sets a glass down in front of him as well. He doesn’t savour it like you do. He takes it down in big gulps, and shakes his head from the burning. 

 

“I don’t know what to say,” you say. It sounds stupid in your head, but it’s honest, too. 

 

“Tell me what you’ve been up to,” he says. 

 

“Well, I…” You don’t know where to start. You begin by telling him the exciting things, like how you plan to travel soon. How you’re going on a trip to America for work. And then to other places.

 

He listens as he always does. He doesn’t interrupt. You find that comforting. 

 

You finally finish talking about yourself. “And you?” 

 

He gives you a devilish smile. There’s a flicker in his eyes, the kind you’d see in a soap bubble before it bursts. He suddenly grabs your hand and takes you by the waist. The both of you stand up and the bar stools rock a little. He holds you close and guides your steps into a sort of dance. Your cheeks flush. You wonder if the bartender is watching. You look down and see the city. It’s like the bar is just a little ledge and you’ll fall right down if you don’t watch your step. But his arms hold you so tight that you don’t think you will. 

 

It’s only for a moment, but you feel indescribable joy as you press against his chest. You remember his smell, and it brings water to your eyes, but you don’t cry. It’s only for a moment as you try to follow his steps. He’s always been a natural at everything and you’ve always felt that you’re just trailing behind and you’ve never minded that. It’s only for a moment and you can’t tell if you can hear his heartbeat or if it’s just your own ringing in your ears. 

 

It’s only for a moment and then it’s gone. 

 

His hands slip out of yours, the pressure on your back leaves only a ghost of sensation. 

 

You hear him laugh, but it’s not a mocking laugh. It’s satisfied. 

 

He turns his back and doesn’t say a word as he leaves. 

 

You go back to the bar stool, shaken, heart racing, hands trembling. It takes you awhile to finish your drink, and by the time you are done, you are almost assuredly on the edge of drunk. But you order another, to repay the bartender’s kindness, and then you never visit that bar again. 

 

* * *

The next time you meet is in LA. You get lost in a shopping mall, the more turns you take, the more disoriented you feel. You had read something about the death of retail, and it amazes you how many empty storefronts there are here. You see a sign illuminating a bar downstairs and figure you might as well ask for directions.

 

The steps go farther down than you think and by the end of them you’re standing in front of a dark, wooden door that doesn’t look like the rest of the metal and glass facades at all. You almost turn around, but this place seems more inviting than the eerie ghost town of empty stores upstairs. You walk through and your senses are bathed in red and gold. The bar is bright, black and white photographs hanging up on the walls and lights that remind you of the kind they use in Hollywood. It’s almost like the front of a movie theater, the carpet is even red. 

 

You take your seat, the last of your anxiety washing away, and order yourself a drink. You can’t really expect to ask something of the bartender and leave, can you? He makes you something fizzy and bitter and refreshing. You want to sit here all day, but you finally decide to ask how to get out of here. 

 

“Oh, leaving so soon?” The voice says from behind you. His voice is almost mocking you, but it never feels cruel when it comes from him. 

 

“When did you get here?” You ask because you don’t know how to ask the other things. 

 

“Just now,” he says as he takes the seat beside you. “I heard you were in town.” 

 

He holds out his palm, expectantly. His eyes glisten. 

 

“So, show me,” he says. 

 

“Show you?” 

 

“All your photos. I know you’ve been traveling.” 

 

Oh. Right. 

 

You take out your phone and slide through. You think he’ll get bored after the first few minutes, but he never does. 

 

You’re there for so long, showing him photos, that you order another drink. Then you ask where the bathroom is. 

 

The bartender points and you excuse yourself. You walk out, not the way you came in, and there, it is, the street, just behind a glass door. You’re finally out of that cursed mall. 

 

You go back into the bar, a little hop in your step from the alcohol and from having finally found your way out, and he is gone. 

 

* * *

The next bar you see him at you don’t find accidently, you don’t go to just because you got lost. This place holds a special meaning for you and you ask to sit at the rooftop. The woman leads you in, past the purple and pink chairs and the ivy hanging over the windows. She takes you upstairs and seats you at the bar, in the shade.

 

It is a hot day and you can feel the sweat trickling down your neck. The heat intensifies with all the concrete, and you should have asked to have a seat inside, but it is too late now. Besides, from inside you can’t see scenery too well. 

 

You order a well-known drink, and the bartender makes it perfectly strong. It is a hot day and you wish you could live on the round ball of ice that clinks in your glass every time you take a sip.  

 

“What are you doing here?” His voice catches you, accusatory, and you almost choke on your drink. 

 

“W-what?” you ask, struggling to swallow. 

 

“You heard me.” His eyes are cold and you can tell you’ve angered him, but you don’t really know what to say. There’s nothing you can say to him as an apology. He won’t take that. You know he won’t. 

 

“I don’t want you to be here,” he says, and his gaze starts to soften. Just a little. Always for you. 

 

“I’m sorry,” is all you can manage to say. You’re not sorry for coming here—it’s something you  _ must  _ do — but you are sorry for making him angry. 

 

He takes a long pause, blinking fiercely, as if deciding what to do, to run or fight or scream or leave you.

 

“I don’t like it,” he says, “I don’t like it when you follow me like this.” 

 

He takes a seat at the bar and orders something strong, something you can’t pronounce. 

 

You want to ask,  _ aren’t you the one following me?  _ but you think that would be rude and he already looks hurt. You can only be comforting. You can only be who you are. 

 

“Don’t worry,” you say, your voice sounds reassuring, like the feeling of a space heater in the winter, stockinged feet curling under the  _ kotatsu.  _ “I’m okay. I’m all right.” 

 

He looks wistfully at you and then wistfully at the sky. The trees in Bryant Park are as green as his eyes. 

 

You can tell he doesn’t believe you — doesn’t  _ want  _ to believe you — but he nods anyway. 

 

“If you say you are.” He gets up and walks away. 

 

You don’t follow him. 

 

* * *

You don’t see him for a while after that.

 

You finally see him again at an airport in Amsterdam. There are so many things here, and it is so busy, full of people and luggage crisscrossing, and cheese and beer and sugary snacks. You tuck yourself away into a corner and try to catch your breath. Your flight isn’t for another two hours. You just want a quiet place to rest before then. You go down a hallway that doesn’t seem as crowded as the rest and arrive at a dimly-lit bar. It seems this is a more neglected part of the airport and here it feels like you can finally breathe. 

 

The bartender makes you a drink. It is sweet and bubbly, bubbles jumping and hissing, so much like the crowded walkways just a corridor away, but you don’t mind it. 

 

“I’m sorry about last time,” he says. 

 

He doesn’t explain any further as he sits beside you and orders the same thing. 

 

His face grimaces when he drinks it. “Of all the things you could have ordered.” 

 

“You don’t like it?” 

 

“Hate it.” 

 

“Want me to take it?” 

 

“No.” 

 

You smile. It feels so nice just to sit and talk like this. 

 

“I want you to know I’m not following you,” you say. If your voice sounds clipped, you’re not sure why. 

 

“Yeah.” He leans his face on his fist, and it scrunches his cheek and makes him look bizarre. “I figured. I knew you  _ knew _ better.” 

 

“But I do think about you,” you say. “A lot. A lot.” 

 

“Well, can’t help that,” he gives you a handsome smile, but its ruined by his scrunched up cheek. 

 

“I wouldn’t want to help it,” you say. 

 

“All right,” he says, slamming his palm on the bar. “Apology accepted.” 

 

He gets up to go, but pauses there, in a half-lean, not quite standing, not quite sitting, as if waiting. 

 

“Soon,” you say. 

 

“Soon,” he repeats. And then he leaves. 

 

* * *

You hadn’t expected to find a bar here. Maybe there isn’t one, but you enter anyway.

 

It’s big. It overlooks the peak. It’s austere, too. Wood panels and warmth and bright. It’s bathed in the colors of the rising of sun. Pale gold. 

 

You finding him waiting at the bar for you. He has a suit on, but his hair is still lank and boyish. You sit next to him, admiring the view, admiring the atmosphere, admiring how he’s here again. 

 

You don’t say anything for a long time, and there isn’t a bartender to order a drink from. 

 

“It’s okay,” he says. “You can say it.” 

 

“But I don’t know what to say,” you say. “I keep seeing you at these bars. Are you haunting me? Is it because I teased you during Halloween?” 

 

He gives a hardy laugh. “No, no, no, I’m not mad at you.” 

 

“Then what is it? I don’t know if I should be happy or terrified.” 

 

“Happy, of course.” He gives you his most devilish smirk. 

 

“But you’re deeeaaaaaaad.” You’re glad there isn’t a bartender here. You think you’ve gone crazy, and that’s okay, but it’s not okay if other people think that too. 

 

“So?” he says. 

 

“So?” You repeat, trilling the o. 

 

“So you always know where to find me.” He spreads his arms out wide. “In these places.” 

 

“Don’t tell me I’ve become a drunk,” you moan, but not really. “Don’t tell me I’ve drank so much that I’m seeing things.” 

 

“Of course you aren’t.” He shrugs off your worries like they aren’t anything. He grabs hold of your hand and pushes it to his chest. “Feel this,” he says. And you feel it. The warmth of his hand. The beat of his heart. The tingling that only comes with being alive. 

 

“No,” you pull away and bury your face in your hands, “I don’t understand it, I don’t understand it, Idon’tunderstandit.” You shake fiercely. Everything you’ve ever known has been turned upside down. Your whole life could be a lie, and nobody would ever believe you. 

 

“What is there to understand?” he gathers you in his arms and won’t let go. Still you pretend to shake and quiver. 

 

“I’m going insane,” you mutter stupidly. 

 

“There, there.” He pats your head, playing along. 

 

You squirm a bit more, feeling his warmth, and it’s so cold outside here on the moutaintop. 

 

“Come.” He unwraps his arms and takes you by the hand. His hand presses your back and you’re dancing again. This time you look up at him. His hair is ethereal in the sunlight. His eyes are blazing light. 

 

You follow his steps, falling into the rhythm from the music that doesn’t exist. It’s happy and warm. It doesn’t need an explanation. 

 

He spins you around and when you look at him, really look at him, he is just as you remembered. Hard and soft, oxymorons and conundrums, but still Ash, Ash,  _ Ash.  _

 

“Can we stay like this?” you ask. 

 

“As long as you want,” he says. 

 

You know you will have to leave eventually. You need to live your life, but there will always be these moments to come back to. He will always wait here, just beyond the realm of understanding. 

 

And the two of you will never say goodbye.


End file.
